


Campbell and MacMillan (Deceased)

by ProfessorFlimflam



Category: Holby City, Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased) (1969)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/F, Ghosts, Ghouls, Holby Halloween Monster Mash 2018, no kidding, things that go bump in the night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 09:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFlimflam/pseuds/ProfessorFlimflam
Summary: Roxanna MacMillan goes unquiet to her grave. She knows that Gaskell murdered her, of course, but who can she trust to help her? Not Meena - she’s unhinged from running her over in the first place, and wasn’t that useful before, to be honest. Essie is blinded by Gaskell’s involvement in Josh’s treatment, and Roxanna fears for Henrik’s state of mind should she appear to him.She has to go outside the team for help, then. Sacha is delicate, Jac too sceptical, but Serena? She might just be able to help...





	Campbell and MacMillan (Deceased)

**Author's Note:**

> Based very loosely on the first episode of Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased), classic childhood teatime fodder for those of us who grew up in the seventies.
> 
> I didn’t have the heart to keep Roxanna in limbo for a whole series, but she’ll need to see justice done before she can rest in peace. Luckily, we know just the woman to get the job done!

On the day that Roxanna MacMillan died, her colleagues gathered at Albie’s to drink and remember, to share stories of the remarkable Ms MacMillan, and to honour her memory. Serena hadn’t known her well, but she had liked the woman - had rather hoped they might become friends one day, and so she joined the wake, a glass of Shiraz in hand. She was listening to Sacha recounting a story of Roxanna’s devotion to Oliver Valentine during his recovery, when her pager bleeped at her. She didn’t recognise the number, but she stepped away from the throng and called back. There was nothing but static on the line, and she hung up with just the slightest curiosity about who it could have been. They would try again if it were anything important, she thought.

Ten minutes later, it bleeped again, and this time she went out into the alley to return the call, thinking that there might be better reception out there. There was still no-one on the end of the line, but she thought she could hear - _something_ \- beneath the static. A sudden gust of wind sent her scurrying back inside, coat collar drawn tightly around her neck. In the alley, a scrap of paper twisted and danced in the cold wind, coming to rest just where Serena had been standing a moment ago. It was a page from a reporters’ notebook, a ragged frill of paper where it had been torn from the spiral binding. The handwriting was a little spidery - a good old fashioned doctor’s scrawl, but a few words were legible, if only there were anyone there to read them.

_Laszlo - diagnosis error? Not MND … neo-conduit irrelevant to recovery …_  
_… infection risk - Patient One … Naylor… danger?_  
_… behaving strangely … embryos … revoked permission …_

The wind blew again and the paper fluttered on down the alley, before it caught under the wheel of a passing car, and it was gone.

***

Serena did not stay late at Albie’s - she paid her respects, paid for a round of drinks and left. As she opened the door to her home, her pager bleeped again. It was the same number as before. This time she called from her landline - maybe her mobile had just been playing up earlier. The static was much reduced, and this time, she could hear a voice, perhaps not quite as clear as day, but audible now, at least.

“Hello? Serena Campbell here,” she said firmly and clearly.

“Serena! Thank goodness - sorry about before, I’m still figuring out how everything works now.”

“How everything - what? Who is this, please? Who’s calling?”

“It’s me - Roxanna. Roxanna MacMillan. Listen, Serena, I need your help.”

Serena held the phone way from her ear for a moment, then replaced it softly in its cradle and rubbed a hand across her tired eyes. This time, it was not her pager, but the phone that rang. Serena paused to press the “R” button on the handset, and picked up, waiting for the caller to speak.

“Don’t hang up! It really is me - it’s Roxanna - I need you to help me.”

Serena’s voice, when she found it, was low, steely and dangerous. “I’m afraid I don’t think this is very funny. You should know that I’m recording this conversation and I’m quite prepared to take it to the police. This may be a great joke to you, but it’s harassment, and of a particularly cruel variety at that. Now get off this line, or my next call will be to 999.”

“Wait - please, Serena! You’ve got to listen to me, it’s life or death -” But Serena slammed the phone down before the caller could say any more, and the phone did not ring again. She made herself a cup of chamomile tea in the hope that it might smooth her jangled nerves and help her sleep. Taking the tea upstairs, she checked that the windows were closed - the wind had really got up this evening! - and before long she was in bed, fast asleep.

It was around midnight - bang on the hour, in fact - that the windows she had carefully shut blew open, the curtains billowing and flaring into the bedroom. The wind whistled into the room, ruffling her hair and filling her lungs with a cold breath. She woke, but did not wake. She sat up, her eyes open but unseeing, and shuffled her feet into the slippers by the bed. Eyes still ahead but unfocused, she stepped deliberately down the stairs, and pausing only to slip on a coat and pick up her car keys, she left the house.

The roads of Holby were quiet at that time of night - and a good thing too, for Serena’s eyes still held that thousand yard stare, though her driving would look safe enough to any bystander. She parked as neatly as she had ever done in her usual spot outside Wyvern Wing, and walked into the hospital, her slippers whispering on the hard vinyl flooring. Her access card was still in her coat pocket, and she held it to first one door, then another, and stepped into the lift. She held the card against the control panel as she pressed the button for a staff only level: -3.

Stepping out of the lift, she walked calmly but surely along the corridor, and used her card one more time.

“I’m here,” she intoned in a strange, flat voice.

As though awakening, she became aware of a gradually brightening light from the double doors before her, and it grew to an almost unbearable brilliance. She blinked against the painful glow, and through squinting eyelids, she made out a figure: dressed all in white, and her hair a blaze of iridescent blonde light, an unmistakably female figure stood just beyond the doors.

“B- Bernie? Is that you?” If she was dreaming, she thought, she didn’t want to wake up. Could Bernie really have come home so soon after her last visit?

But it was not Bernie Wolfe who moved through the doors as they swung open as though of their own accord, that strong, cold wind swirling round the clinical space of the - 

“What am I doing in the morgue?!” Serena exclaimed, suddenly quite alert - and very alarmed.

All at once, the wind subsided, and the light faded to normal levels, though the figure before her wore impossibly bright white scrubs, and her hair and face were as pale as - Serena did not want to think about what they were as pale as.

For standing before her, as pale as a ghost, but as elegant and beautiful as she had been in life, was Roxanna MacMillan, whose wake she had attended only hours before.

“Roxanna,” she breathed. “You - you’re not dead?

“Oh, I’m dead alright,” Roxanna replied. “Wish I wasn’t, but there we are - can’t be helped now.”

Serena shook her head slowly. “So I _am_ dreaming,” she breathed, reassured.

Roxanna tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Does it _feel_ as though you’re dreaming?” She asked.

“I’m sure I must be - what’s the alternative? That I’m off my rocker, or that I’m seeing ghosts? Neither option is acceptable, I’m afraid, so dreaming it is. All I have to do is pinch myself and - ow!”

She rubbed at her arm, where she had indeed pinched herself rather too vigorously.

With a look of mounting dismay, she looked up at Roxanna’s figure.

“Oh God. I’m awake?”

“You are.”

“And you’re dead?”

“I am.”

“So you’re - I can’t believe I’m saying this - you’re a ghost?”

“Well, we could argue about semantics all night, I suppose - ghost, spirit, echo - whatever I am, I’m here. And I’m here because I need your help.”

Serena leaned back against the cold metal table. “My help? You said that before, on the phone. But what on earth can _I_ do? You’re surely not suggesting I can bring you back to life? Look, I know I’m a good surgeon - _great_ , even - but really, that’s beyond even me.”

Roxanna rolled her eyes. “Don’t be absurd. I'm dead and that’s that. No, I need help bringing my killer to justice.”

Serena looked askance at her. “Roxanna, look - your death is a tragedy - truly, it’s awful, but - well, you cant possibly believe that Meena ran you over deliberately?”

The ghost of Roxanna MacMillan shook her head impatiently. “Not Meena. Oh, she was driving the car, I know that, she kept snivelling about it while I was locked in, but that was an accident. No, it wasn’t Meena that killed me.”

“Who, then?”

Roxanna sounded more sad than vengeful as she spoke.

“It was John. John Gaskell murdered me.”

***

Serena was at least properly awake by the time she drove home, but she was still in a state of quite some befuddlement. She could hardly take it in! John Gaskell - the dry, scholarly professor - had threatened Roxanna physically, pinning her to a wall until she broke free, only to run into the path of the hapless Meena Chowdhury and her personalised number plates. 

Not only that, but he had ensured that her recovery was hampered - prevented, even - by deliberately fouling the operation that should have restored her to consciousness. And when she had finally begun to emerge from the hideous state that was locked in syndrome, he had used her own research against her, introducing MTPT into her drip feed, ultimately causing her death. And all the while he had narrated his cold-hearted actions, like some low-rent Bond villain.

“But why me?” Serena had asked. “Why don’t you haunt Gaskell himself - drive him to a confession?”

Roxanna shuddered. “He’s the very last person I want to hang around with, believe me. And I'm not haunting you - please don’t think of it like that. I don’t feel the least bit vindictive, not even towards John - but he’s lost it, completely lost it, and I don’t think even seeing me like this would convince him that he’d done anything wrong. He needs to be stopped before he kills anyone else in the name of his research - which is deeply flawed, by the way.”

Serena agreed that she had gleaned as much from Meena, whose tenure on the project had been more on-off than the putative romance she understood had been brewing between Fletch and Jac Naylor.

“Poor kid,” Roxanna sighed. “I mean, she’s basically a waste of space, but he’s been rotten to her all through the whole thing. I think she’s got to the point where she doubts her own sanity - he tried the same trick on me, by the way - and now he’s letting her think she was responsible for my death.”

“Well,” Serena demurred, “She was irresponsible to drive while she was blubbing - it’s not so different from my Elinor driving off in high dudgeon, and look how that turned out. Oh! Can you - I mean, is there - what’s the protocol - would you be able to find Elinor? Ask her to come and see me?”

The hope in Serena’s face would have broken Roxanna’s heart had it still been beating, but she smiled kindly. 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. I’m only able to talk to you because I haven’t checked in yet. Once I do, there’ll be no coming back. I’m sorry. Maybe after all this is over… I don’t know what happens next, whether there’s anything at _all_ , but if it’s possible to find her, I will,” she promised.

Serena wiped the tears from her cheek and nodded stoutly. “Of course. I’m sure if she could have come back, she would have done by now,” though she was sure of no such thing - she could well believe that her daughter would be as thoughtless after death as she been alive.

“You said you hadn’t checked in yet - how does it work? I mean, how long have we got? And who else are you asking to help you?”

With a look that said, _let’s get down to business_ , Roxanna explained. “There’s no time limit - but I can only work between dusk and dawn. The moment the sun’s up, I have to go back to base.” She nodded her head behind her, towards the morgue proper, with its rows of refrigerated drawers. 

“What happens if you don’t get back in time?” Serena asked curiously.

“Then I have to stay put - no entrance to the club,” Roxanna said grimly, pointing heavenwards. “At least, not for a hundred years. So I’m going to have to be even more punctual than ever.”

“I see. And who else is with us?”

Roxanna shook her head. “That's part of the deal too. I can only appear to one person - and that’s you.”

As flattered as she was horrified, Serena gave the other woman a stern look she usually reserved for F1s. “You chose me as your one living contact? Why on earth did you do that! We barely even worked together - surely Henrik would have been able to help you more than I can?”

Looking sadder than ever, Roxanna sighed heavily, and the blinds over the window in the door rattled against the glass.

“Can you imagine what that would do to him? He’s lived with deep depression all his life: there have been times when he’s feared for his sanity. Then Fredrik, and David and Raf, poor, brave Ollie Valentine and Jac Naylor, and now me - well, how do think he’d respond to seeing me now?”

Serena inclined her head in acquiescence, and Roxanna continued.

“Meena’s practically unhinged - not that she would have been much use anyway - and Essie is so blinded by her hopes for young Josh that she won’t hear a word against John - she so desperately wants him to be right. Sacha’s in a pretty bad way, and Jac - well, you try convincing Jac Naylor that there are such things as ghosts, or whatever I am.”

“Fair point. So you’re stuck with me - best of a bad lot, eh? Well, I had sort of hoped that one day we might work together - strong women of a certain age in this profession should stick together, I say - but somehow our paths never seemed to cross for long enough. What’s the plan, then?”

They had talked long into the small hours about how they might tackle the task of bringing Gaskell to justice, and had drawn up a list of first steps when Roxanna suddenly exclaimed, “The time! I must get back to the fridge.”

“Really? Even though we’re three floors below ground level here? You needn’t worry about daylight down here, surely.”

But Roxanna was not prepared to risk it, and Serena held the door open for her, before realising it was probably not strictly necessary - but she chose not to watch as Roxanna resumed her place in the morgue.

She stumbled to her car as the first hint of dawn lit the skyline, and she drove home more cautiously than she often did. She shook her coat off when she got home, and laughed wearily as she realised she was still wearing her pyjamas.

She looked at the clock in the hallway: it had just gone six o’clock. That meant it was night in Nairobi, and Bernie would just be starting work. She picked up the phone.

“Bernie? Oh, Bernie darling, thank goodness. It’s me. No, no - don’t worry - everything’s alright. Well, no - it isn’t actually. You’re going to think I'm mad when I tell you, but if I don’t talk to someone I really _shall_ go mad.”

***

But Bernie did not think Serena was mad.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Roxanna. I liked her a lot. Wish I’d had a chance to work with her. How dreadful for poor Henrik - you’ll need to be there for him, Serena, he’s always relied on you in bad times.”

“He has,” Serena acknowledged, “And I’ll do my best for him, I will. It’s just that it’s - well, it’s rather complicated. And this is the bit that will make you think I’ve gone mad. Don't laugh at me - promise you won’t laugh, Bernie?”

“I promise. None of it’s a laughing matter, is it? Talk to me.”

“The thing is, Bernie - I saw her.”

“Okay,” Bernie encouraged. “Go on. You saw her - when? The day she had the accident? Or today, as she died?”

Serena hesitated, then braced herself. “Not _before_ she died. Bernie, I saw her _after_ she died. I saw her last night.”

“You went to pay your respects? That’s not so unusual,” Bernie said, wondering why Serena was so agitated about what seemed like a relatively normal mourning ritual.

“No, listen Bernie - and do stop interrupting, I’m trying to tell you. I didn’t go to see her: she came to me.”

And Serena recounted the ringing of her pager, the phone calls, and the odd awakening from her trance-like state to find herself in the morgue, and speaking to the late lamented Roxanna MacMillan.

There was silence at the end of the line. Serena held her breath, then unable to bear the tension, she burst out, “Oh, just _say_ something, would you? Tell me I’ve lost the plot, gone completely crackers. I’ve gone mad, haven’t I?”

But Bernie, when she spoke, had kindness and certainty in her voice.

“You’re not going mad, Serena. And I know that for a fact, because I’ve seen people like this too, just after they died.” She continued across Serena’s gasp, “Oh, not quite like you describe with Roxanna - I’ve not known anyone linger for more than a few minutes - but yes, I’ve seen it.”

“Would you tell me about it? What you’ve seen?” Serena sounded almost shy.

Bernie sighed, trying to marshall her thoughts. 

“I’ve only seen it following an operation - a military operation, I mean. In my experience it’s been when someone dies suddenly, and in a state of heightened emotion of some sort - fear, anger maybe. Mostly fear, though.”

“Roxanna says you can only show yourself to one person. Why wouldn’t they choose their nearest and dearest, to say goodbye?”

“I think there’s a lot of confusion sometimes, given the way they’ve died, and they don’t _know_ that they’re dead. It’s as though they’re awaiting permission to stand down. They look to their commanding officer, or the most senior officer they can see - which usually means me, if they die in theatre. I remember one lad - Sam Wilcox, sweet lad, younger than Cameron is now. He’d stepped on an IED which had left him alive - barely - and conscious, but we just couldn’t stop the bleeding. He was in terrible pain, and very frightened. When he died, I stayed in theatre to sit with him a moment - I always tried to if there was time - and there he was, standing next to the table whole and uninjured - but sort of glowing, just as you described Roxanna. He looked so bewildered, and he looked at me and just said, ‘Major?’ in this scared voice - sounded more like a little boy than a soldier.”

“What did you do?” Serena asked, forgetting all about Roxanna for a moment.

Bernie exhaled with a great huff. Serena could picture her fringe lifting and falling again, and the thought made her smile. 

“I looked at him, and thought, what this boy needs is an order. So I stood to attention, saluted him, and said, _Time to report for duty, Wilcox_. He looked so relieved. He saluted me, made as smart an about face as I’ve ever seen, and just sort of - marched off into nothingness.”

“Wow,” Serena breathed. “You did a beautiful thing for him.” Coming back to the present and her own situation, she added, “But I can’t very well give Roxanna her marching orders.”

“No, you can’t.” Bernie agreed. “I’ve seen a good few people like this, but none of them has ever asked me for help, apart from needing to be given that little encouragement to go. This is the real deal, Serena - and I think Roxanna’s telling the truth about Gaskell. You need to help her.”

***

Serena was thankful that she did not need to go in to work until much later that day, and she took a quick shower and went back to bed to make up for her broken night. When she woke up a few hours later, she made herself a pot of coffee and got straight to work scouring the medical literature and the popular press for everything she could find on Gaskell’s research, and on Roxanna’s work on locked in syndrome. A profile in a weekend supplement told her that Roxanna’s interest in the condition sprang from caring for her mother, and Serena shuddered to think of the terrible cruelty of inducing it in Roxanna herself.

She read, too, about the “Miracle Man” Gaskell, and his success in reversing Laszlo’s motor neurone disease - but Roxanna had told her the previous night about her discovery. The initial diagnosis had been erroneous, and Laszlo had never had the disease to start with. It was still a breakthrough, and truly life changing for the patient, but not the miracle that Gaskell had believed it to be. He certainly hadn’t brought _that_ to anyone’s attention, she thought. She knew that the Board of Governors had become increasingly concerned about the amount of money being sunk into the trial, and if they knew about this, she felt sure that there would have been an immediate enquiry and a suspension of funds.

She read on, absorbed in her work, until her grumbling stomach alerted her to the fact that she hadn’t eaten since she got up. She stuck a ready meal in the microwave, and kept reading as she absentmindedly shovelled it down. Once she had exhausted her options online, she set off for the hospital: she would be a couple of hours early, but she had work to do that she could only do there.

***

Serena sat back in her chair, appalled at what she had just read. She had had no idea of the number of operations Jac Naylor had undergone, nor of the risky nature of some of those procedures. And as for the pain medication she had been prescribed, the woman must have been in agony without such quantities: anyone else would have been unable to function _with_ them. But Jac of all people was no fool, and must have known the risks she had taken. Serena would need to talk to her, and she jotted her name down on the list she had drawn up.

“Definitely. Meena first, though, don’t you think?”

Serena looked up sharply, and despite last night’s adventure she gave a double take at seeing Roxanna MacMillan sitting in what she still thought of as Bernie’s chair.

“God, you startled me. You couldn’t give me a warning next time, rattle your chains or something?”

Roxanna smiled wryly. “I can’t exactly knock, can I?” She demonstrated on the table, and Serena watched with fascination as Roxanna’s knuckles went straight through the desk.

“That’s a neat trick. Can you walk through walls as well? I suppose you must be able to, to get in here.”

Roxanna gave a little _moué_ of distaste. “I can, but I don’t like the sensation - makes me feel a bit queasy, somehow. But I’ve got an even neater trick - look.”

She gave a little frown of concentration, and Serena was left looking stupidly at an empty chair.

“OK, I give up - where did you go?” she asked, feeling rather foolish.

“She’s behind yoooouuuu!” Roxanna said in a mournful tone from just behind Serena’s chair, her face inches away as she turned around. Serena merely twitched an eyebrow at her, and nodded her head at the empty chair.

“Very funny. Sit back down where I can see you, if you please - you’re right, it _is_ a good trick. But no more sneaking up, thank you very much.”

Roxanna resumed her seat, a sheepish smile on her face. 

“Sorry - couldn’t resist. I won’t do it again.”

A thought occurred to Serena. “You can sit on a chair but not knock on wood? What’s that all about? Can you touch things or not?”

“Not really. The sitting down is an illusion - there’s a bit of a knack to it, but I'm not really on the chair. You could sit on me if you wanted to. Sit in me? Through me? I’m not sure.”

Serena shuddered. “Well, I'm sorry to say it’s not the worst offer I’ve ever received, but it’s up there. I won’t, thank you.”

“As for touching - I can’t touch things, or pick them up, but I can do this,” she said, and she drew a breath in, then blew across the desk, sending a stack of papers swirling around the office, and making the blinds clatter against the window, just as they had done in the morgue the night before.

“Oh, bloody hell, I spent half of yesterday getting that lot sorted out. Can you do it in reverse?”

Roxanna looked a little shamefaced. “Don’t think so - sorry. I can do lights and stuff as well, though - look.”

The little frown appeared again, and the desk lamp flickered on and off like a strobe lamp.

Serena reached across and switched it off irritably. “Yes, that’s going to come in _very_ handy in our investigations. Well, at least your disappearing trick might be useful, I suppose - you can get to places I can’t.”

Roxanna leaned in a little. “The problem’s going to be getting hard evidence - we already know what happened, but we need proof - or a confession. And the proof has to be something you could have found on your own - I can tell you where stuff is, but you need to be able to explain how you came by it some other way. Essie and Meena probably know enough between them to help, but its getting sense out of them that’s the problem now.”

Serena nodded. “Mm. Poor Meena’s been an absolute wreck since the accident. I think she could do with a bit of mothering - goodness knows I’ve got some of that to spare,” she said glumly. 

“She certainly didn’t get much in the way of nurturing from John or me, I have to admit. As for Essie - I don’t know. She had some doubts at one point, but she seems to have been able to put them to one side to try and get Josh the treatment he needed. But you know, she’s got a very strong moral compass - if you appeal to her conscience you might be able to get her thinking straight again.”

***

“She just came out of nowhere!” Meena sobbed into Serena’s shoulder. Serena had found the F2 with Roxanna’s help - “ _Blubbing in the loos on Keller_ ” - and, taping an Out of Order notice to the door as she slipped in, she had indeed found Meena, her trademark black mascara making rivers down her cheeks.

“Tell me all about it,” she had said, gritting her teeth, and Meena had done just that. Every last detail of her dreadful day had come out, and now she was getting to the relevant bit, Roxanna materialised next to them again, having disappeared in a puff of irritation as Meena’s self pity got too much for her.

“I didn’t come out of nowhere - I came from the undercroft where John was threatening me!” she said in exasperation.

Serena gave a little nod, and gently prising Meena from her shoulder, she said in a sensible sort of voice, “Well now, she can’t have come from nowhere, can she? Think back - if you didn’t see her coming, it can’t have been from in front of the hospital, can it? You’d have seen her coming from the Peace Garden too, I should think. So where could she have been?”

Meena frowned. “I don’t know! I cant think…” she wiped her face with her sleeve, diverting the rivers across her face instead of down it. “I was parked facing away from the entrance, and I’d checked my mirrors, and looked behind me…” she mimed holding the steering wheel, and looked back over her right shoulder.

“I know I was upset and a bit distracted, but I’d definitely have seen her if she was there.” She closed her eyes for a second, clearly trying to remember exactly what she had seen. “So she must have come from over by the little cut through under AAU - oh! There were a couple of Chelsea tractors parked there - she must have come from behind them, that’s why I didn’t see her! And she was running, looking over her shoulder, so _she_ didn’t see _me!_ ”

She looked up at Serena with wide eyes.

“I couldn’t have avoided her, could I? I mean - it’s not my fault!”

Smiling kindly at her, Serena shook her head. “No, Meena. I don’t think any of this is your fault. You had a tough old time with that project one way or another, and and this is a terrible thing to have happened, but really, I don’t believe any of it was your fault.”

Meena sniffed and wiped at her face again. The mascara was so liberally distributed now that it looked as though she had had her face painted by a well meaning amateur at a children’s Halloween party, and as sorry as she felt for the girl, Serena still had to stifle a smile.

“I _did_ have a rubbish time working with Professor Gaskell and Ms Macmillan,” she said. “Gaskell was so mean to me - I only ever wanted to help, to contribute to the trial, but every time I had a good idea, he slapped me down. When I said I thought there was risk of infection from the neo-conduit, he was really angry with me, but there was good evidence for it - I looked at the obs for several of his guinea pigs, and they all had the same symptoms, but even when he _did_ listen, I’m sure it was only because Ms MacMillan was there.”

“She’s right,” Roxanna confirmed. “He so obviously wanted to cover it up, and he might have been able to convince her it was a fluke, but when she said it in front of me… well, it was probably one of the nails in my coffin, I’m afraid.”

Serena shuddered. “Can you not use that expression, please?”

She had forgotten Meena, who looked bewildered. “Ms Campbell?”

Thinking back furiously, Serena scrabbled for an excuse, and found it.

“Guinea pig,” she said testily. “Can you try to remember that our patients are _people_ , not lab rats!”

“I’m sorry.” Meena was contrite. “And thank you - I feel a lot better now that I know I couldn't have helped hitting her in the car park. And she couldn't have got treatment any sooner than she did - thank goodness Xav was there!”

Serena’s ears pricked up, but she let it go, and touching her own cheek lightly, she said, “You’ve got a little something on your face there - you might want to check before you go back out on the ward?”

She gave Meena a last little hug, and slipped quietly out of the room, leaving the sign on the door to let the girl recover her equilibrium.

“So Mr Duval was first responder, was he? I didn’t know that. I wonder why he’s been so quiet about that? Not like him to be shy about his heroics.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to be in the car park? Was he skiving, do you think?”

Serena shook her head. “Not our Xavier, no - he truly loves the work. But he might well have been up to something nefarious - he has a bad habit of flirting with female patients, and trouble does seem to follow him around… I’ll have a matronly word with him. You know the sort of thing, _better to tell me now rather than let me find out later_ … he’ll crumble like a hobnob in hot tea if I know him.”

***

Serena’s hunch proved well-founded, and a sheepish Mr Duval confessed to some less than professional conduct, but he was able to confirm Meena’s version of events, and was even able to add that he had seen Gaskell hovering and holding back before he had joined in the attempts to help Ms MacMillan.

“So, we can place Gaskell at the scene,” Serena mused, “and now we officially know where to look, I can request CCTV of that corner, or failing that, the corridor leading out there - we should be able to pick him up there. Good. Now to find evidence of what he did to you yesterday.”

Roxanna looked frustrated. “The evidence is there alright - you just need to secure the bag and line that he tampered with - but it’s finding a reason to get it and have it analysed. We need to establish reasonable doubt about my death, and I’m not sure how we can do that.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, mulling over this conundrum. Serena had pulled the blinds so no-one would see her apparently talking to herself, and the desk lamp she had switched on for extra light shone strangely through Roxanna’s ghostly form.

“Who else was involved in your care?” She asked eventually. “Surely someone might have some suspicions about your sudden deterioration?”

Roxanna looked at her dumbly for a moment, then sat up straight. “Of course!” She exclaimed. “Essie! She knew I was making a good recovery and trying to communicate, but he told her she was doing more harm than good - she probably thinks she pushed me too far and accelerated things. Oh, damn the man, letting all these women think it’s their fault - it’s completely typical!”

The light flickered, and the blinds rattled a little, and Serena was hasty to calm her down.

“Steady on - you’ll have people starting rumours abut what I’m getting up to in here while Bernie’s away. What do you mean, it’s typical?”

Composing herself, Roxanna explained. “Well, he did exactly the same thing after Patient One died - he let Essie and Meena think it was their post-operative care that had done for her, when it was his faulty science. That’s why she left, you know, Essie. It sounds awful, but her cancer was a blessing - it’s what got her back here. She’d be long gone if he had his way.”

“Would she? That’s interesting. He nearly finished her career, but she’s still in thrall to him because of young Josh, I suppose. Do you think she might be persuaded to think a bit more critically about what happened?”

Roxanna leaned forward eagerly. “I’m sure of it. She’s had her doubts all along, but this business with the boy has made her so desperate to believe in John. If you can remind her how suspicious she was before, though - and for goodness’s sake tell her she was helping me, not harming me at the end!”

***

It was a couple of hours into her shift before Serena was able to engineer an accidental meeting with Nurse di Lucca. Essie was no longer the organ donor co-ordinator, but a former patient of hers had come under Serena’s care today, and it was natural that Serena should seek to clarify some details with her.

The patient in question was a young chap who had benefited from a heart transplant a couple of years previously, and Essie remembered him well. 

“Actually, Josh reminds me of him a little bit,” Essie smiled. “Full of life, keen to recover, wouldn’t take no for an answer, kept on believing that the right donor would come along - and he was right, too.”

Serena saw an opening, and she pounced “Oh - your young rugby player? I was thinking about him just the other day, as it happens. I was wondering about that - how was it that Josh wasn’t eligible for the trial, then all of a sudden he was? What changed, do you know?”

“To be honest, that’s still a bit of a mystery to me,” Essie mused. “Professor Gaskell never really explained - I got a clear message not to ask too many questions about it.” She sighed and shook her head. “I'd love to know what’s on that dictaphone of his.” 

“His what?” Serena’s interest was truly piqued now.

“Oh, he’s forever mumbling into his little memory stick thing - says he does all his best thinking out loud, and he’s fanatical about recording and labelling everything. You can see why he and Mr Hanssen became friends.”

“Indeed! I hope he keeps it safely locked up,” Serena said sternly, playing the deputy CEO again for a moment. “GDPR and all that, you know.”

“Oh, yes, he keeps it all under lock and key in the wet lab - there’s a filing cabinet in the corner, all his memory sticks labelled and filed in order. He’s positively paranoid about anyone going near it.”

“Is he, now?” Serena said thoughtfully.

“I wish I’d never encouraged Julie to consider donating her frozen embryos to the trial,” Essie continued berating herself. “Once she realised they wouldn't help Josh directly, she wouldn't let us use them, but we got her hopes up cruelly - I feel terrible about it. Not as bad as about poor Ms MacMillan, though.”

“Roxanna? Well, yes - we all feel terribly sad about her death - it’s a real tragedy. And it must be very hard for you, having worked so closely with her. You carried out a lot of her care after the accident, didn’t you?”

Essie dragged a hand over her face, and when she looked up, she seemed utterly distraught. 

“God knows I wish I hadn’t. I pushed her too hard, tried to get her to communicate before she was ready. It wasn’t until Professor Gaskell warned me that I realised how harmful it was.”

Serena stared at her, aghast at how harshly Essie was punishing herself, even though Roxanna had warned her about Gaskell’s manipulation of the woman.

“Essie, what on earth are you talking about? Communicating with her could only have helped her! “

“But he said I was overstimulating her, making her do more than she was ready for…”

“With the greatest of respect, Essie, that’s nonsense. I can’t think why he would have told you that, unless he didn’t _want_ her to communicate something, of course.”

Essie looked at her shocked but curious. “What do you mean? Why would he want to stop her talking?”

“Because I was trying to get her to call the cops!” Roxanna hissed.

Serena shrugged. “I don’t know - did she manage to say anything before he stopped you talking to her?”

“It was hard work - all she could do was blink. I was using an alphabet board with her, and all she got to spell out was P, O - I don’t know what she was trying to say.” She shook her head in frustration. “You really think I should have persevered? She was trying to tell me something, and I let him stop me. Oh, poor, _poor_ Roxanna!”

Serena put an arm around Essie’s shoulders. “It’s horrible to think of, isn’t it? But truly, you couldn't have brought about her death by simply helping her communicate.”

Blowing her nose, Essie nodded. “I’m glad - I’m so glad to hear it. You can’t imagine what a relief that is. But if it wasn’t over-stimulation, what did she die of? There must have been something else, some other change that we hadn’t been aware of.”

Serena nodded soberly. “You’re right. Who was on the crash team yesterday? Who attended Ms MacMillan when the alarm went off?”

“Mr Hanssen, I think, and Professor Gaskell. Meena, maybe? There was an anaesthetist that I didn’t recognise, and a theatre nurse I used to work with - Sandra McClaren.”

“Nurse McClaren - you know her well? Is she a good nurse, would you say?

Essie nodded assertively. “The best. An absolute stickler for routine and procedure. We could do with more like her.”

Serena glanced round to make sure they were not being overheard. 

“Essie, keep it very, very quiet, but see if she can find the bag and line that was hung when Roxanna died. I’d like to have it analysed - ensure there was no contamination. Make sure it’s handled by as few people as possible: keep a clear chain of evidence - do you understand?”

Essie turned wide eyes on her. “You think there might have been a drug error?”

Serena chose her words carefully.

“I think it’s possible that something was in that bag that shouldn’t have been, yes.”

Essie squared her shoulders, a determined look on her face.

“Leave it with me. I’ll find Sandra right away.”

***

On her way back down to AAU, Serena bumped into Jac Naylor.

“Jac! The very woman. I wanted to pick your brain about something.”

Jac leaned her weight on one hip with a weary sigh. “Make it snappy, Campbell. Some of us have got lives to save today.”

“Alright, then, I’ll get straight to the point. What do you make of John Gaskell?”

Jac didn’t seem to give it a second thought as she answered, “Gaskell? He’s a slippery bastard with odious ethics, and he takes too many risks.”

This was candid, even for Jac Naylor.

“Several of those risks have been operating on you - isn’t that right?”

“Yes. Your point?”

Serena shook her head slightly in confusion. “You don’t seem the least bit bothered that someone who takes massive risks has had your life in his hands not just once, but multiple times - and you knew he was - what, a charlatan? A bluffer?”

“I understood that - that’s why I _wanted_ him to operate. No risk, no result, not in my case. No-one else would have even thought about operating on me, so it had to be someone who didn’t care about the outcome.”

“And yet you trusted him.”

Jac scoffed. “Trust him? I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“But you trusted him with your _life_ ,” Serena said, puzzled.

Jac made a dismissive gesture. “Not my life - my career. And if I don’t have my career, then there’s not much point in my life. Now, move - you’re in my way.”

Serena watched her stalk down the corridor and sook her head in admiration mingled with irritation at the woman’s stubbornness. 

***

“Mr Fletcher!”

Serena’s voice rang out clear and stern, but ever so slightly husky, and the gentleman in question felt a little thrill that wasn’t entirely one of fear or respect. He turned round, a smile he hoped was charming firmly in place.

“Ms Campbell, it’s Stephen, please. What can I do for you?”

“You can step into my office this moment, thank you,” she snapped, and led the way without looking to see if he was following.

Fletch, who had overheard this little exchange, looked sideways at his father, who merely gave him a shrug and a cocky wink as he stepped into the consultants’ office.

“Shut the door behind you, please, Mr Fletcher.”

He complied, giving his son another little shrug through the window as he did so. For once, he had no idea why he was about to be hauled over the coals - for there was no mistaking the tone in Serena’s voice.

“Alright, what am I supposed to have done now?” He demanded, taking the fight to her before she could launch in on him.

“Oh, nothing at all,” Serena said airily. “I just thought it looked less suspicious if it looked as though I was giving you a dressing down - ah, don’t even go there,” she warned, seeing the glint in his eye and realising her mistake. “No. It’s more a question of what you’re _going_ to do, as a matter of fact. Which is something quite beyond your usual duties.”

“Go on,” he said, interested.

“Sit down,” she told him, “And don’t forget I’m giving you a right royal rollicking as far as anyone else is aware. Now. Am I right in thinking you have something of a - shall we say - _colourful_ past?”

Suddenly on the defensive, he sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “Now, look here, I don’t know who's told you what, but I’ve paid for the mistakes I made when I was a youngster - you can’t hold them against me now!”

“Oh, but I’m not holding them against you: they’re very much in your favour, actually. Can you still pick a lock?”

He stared at her agog, then gave a short laugh. “What makes you think I ever could in the first place?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, and simply waited for him.

“Well, alright, yes I may have tickled a few latches in my youth. Haven't done it for a while, though. What’s up, lost your car keys? Can’t you just call the RAC?”

Serena glanced out of the window on to the ward. Fletch seemed to have lost interest in whatever trouble his old man had got himself into this time.

“Not a car key. There’s a filing cabinet I need to get into - and get it locked again afterwards, with no sign of any interference or damage. Can you do it?”

Stephen glanced at the filing cabinet in the corner, but she shook her head. “Not that one - it’s in another room.”

He looked at her as he mulled things over. “I see - it’s like that, is it? Tell you what, let me see if I can do this one without knackering it. I’ll need to get hold of a couple of bits and pieces - I don’t tend to carry the old tool kit around with me these days, if you know what I mean.”

A short while later, he gave a tap at her door, his tool bag in hand. 

“Is this a good time to fix that cabinet, Ms Campbell?” he asked brightly, and she ushered him in. He set the bag down on a chair and made as though to rummage through it, but took a slim leather roll out of his pocket instead. It contained a number of thin steel implements, and he looked at ther lock, then selected the finest tools in the roll, not much more substantial than stiff wire.

A few moments later, there was a soft click, and he slid the drawer out smoothly. 

“Very impressive,” Serena said. “Now, can you lock it again?”

It took rather longer to lock the cabinet - “Sorry, never done it this way round before,” he grinned - but he got the job done with no trace of interference.

“Splendid!” Serena beamed. “Want another go, make sure you can do it quickly?”

Several attempts later, Stephen was confident that he could unlock and re-lock a cabinet as smoothly as he would ever manage it, and Serena sent him down to the wet lab, following him a few minutes later to deflect suspicion. He was waiting for her at the door, hands shoved nervously in his pockets.

“Gives me the heebie-jeebies, this place - and so does that prof of yours that works down here. Let’s make it quick, eh?”

Roxanna popped up beside Serena. “He may be a bit of a geezer, but I’d say he’s got sound instincts. Get in there and I’ll keep watch - I’ll be in the lift. I’ll let you know the minute anyone hits the button for the basement.”

And as suddenly as she had arrived, she disappeared again.

Serena held a card - Meena’s, which she had swiped during their encounter earlier that day - to the access panel, and they slipped inside. She pointed out the cabinet Essie had mentioned, and mere moments later, Stephen silently slid the drawer open. He whistled.

“Blimey, what’s all this lot?”

Just as Essie had described, row upon row of memory sticks lay neatly in the drawer, and Serena gave a sigh of relief when she found yesterday’s date at the very end of the row. Running a finger along the row, she took another stick, dated the day of the accident, and she tucked them both into her pocket. Replacing them with blank memory sticks to make their absence less obvious, she gave Stephen the nod, and he soon had the cabinet locked again.

They left the office and headed for the lift. 

“Get out on the ground floor,” she instructed him. “I’ll carry on upstairs. If anyone asks you about this, you know nothing at all, do you understand? You can’t even tell Fletch.”

He looked at her, impressed. “You really are mixed up in something dodgy here, ain’t you? I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Ms C - had you down as a by-the-book sort of girl.”

She gave him a little shove as the doors opened on the ground floor, and as they slid closed again, she winked at him.

“Well, after all, Mr Fletcher, I’m a _hell of a woman_.”

***

Back in her office with the door shut and locked, Serena pushed yesterday’s stick into a USB slot on her PC. As she had expected, it was encrypted, and she ran through several possibilities with no luck. 

“Roxanna!” She whispered, unsure of whether she could be heard or not. “Roxanna? Come and give me some help with this, would you?”

A few minutes later, Roxanna appeared lounging in Bernie’s chair - _Ric’s chair_ , Serena had to remind herself - her hair slightly tousled.

“Sorry - been having a blast riding the lift. Felt a bit weird being so close to people, so I rode on the top - really invigorating!”

Together, they tried to guess what password Gaskell might have used: they tried _Laszlo_ , and _Patient0_ , and _neoconduit_ , with every combination of numbers, letters and symbols they could think of. They entered various dates - Roxanna’s birthday, Henrik’s, the date of their shared graduation, but with no success.

“I think we’ll have to bite the bullet and talk to Henrik,” Roxanna admitted. “He might have some ideas about it that haven’t occurred to me.”

“I can’t very well ask him, _what’s John’s password, I think he murdered Roxanna and left a confession on a memory stick_ , can I?” Serena grumbled.

“Well, no. But look, you and Henrik are good friends, aren’t you? I’m sure you can get him to talk about John - about the three of us. We were quite the team in the good old days. He could do with letting some of it out - _he_ won’t think so, but it will be better for him in the long run - though it will destroy him to learn about John,” Roxanna said sadly.

Serena was solemn. “I’m afraid you’re right. First Fredrik, then you, and now John. He’s really going to need a good friend to get him though this, isn’t he?”

Roxanna smiled sadly.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Serena. Now, let’s go and find him. I think it’s time.”

 

***

Henrik had taken refuge on the roof, as so many of his employees had done over the years. Serena closed the door softly, and called his name. He didn’t turn round, but he made a small gesture of acknowledgement, a twitch of his hand, a tilt of his head.

Serena was one of the few people at Holby City Hospital who could make physical contact with the perpetually aloof Mr Hanssen, and she looped her arm through his, and simply stood with him for a long while, gazing out over the city.

“We’ve seen too much loss at this old place, haven’t we Henrik? Too much death, too many lives cut short.”

He stood steadfastly looking forward, but he nodded tightly. “Indeed we have, Serena. You and I most of all, I think.”

She chose her words carefully.

“You once told me you would do almost anything for me. Do you remember?”

“I do,” he said, nodding, but apparently without curiosity.

“And I would do almost anything for you as well, even if I knew it was going to hurt you as much as this is going to.”

Now he turned, a frown of confusion drawing his brows together.

“What do you mean? What do you suppose could hurt more than I have been hurt already?”

Serena let go of his arm and turned to lean on the railing.

“Tell me about John Gaskell, Henrik. Tell me about the work he and Roxanna were doing. And tell me why they had fallen out so badly.”

He pursed his lips, and she thought she had gone too far, too soon, but he was simply collecting his thoughts, and he spoke as carefully, as precisely as always.

“I believe the term is gaslighting, is it not? John had been casting doubt on Roxanna’s state of mind, trying to make her - and me - doubt her own mental stability.”

“Why would he do that, Henrik? They were such good friends, and working towards the same ends, surely?”

He sighed.

“The same ends, certainly, but by very different means. Roxanna was always driven by compassion, by care. Her research career began almost before her first year as a medical student: she was trying to find a way to reverse her mother’s locked in syndrome, did you know that?”

Serena looked at Roxanna, standing behind them. 

“Yes, I knew. How terrible that Roxanna suffered the same fate - and how utterly cruel.”

He looked up sharply at the note of hard steel that had entered her voice.

“You and I know better than most that fate can be very cruel indeed.”

“Fate? I don’t think so, Henrik. You said John was gaslighting Roxanna: Why? What did he have to gain? Or to hide?”

“We were all at medical school together, the three of us: I think you knew that? It was very clear right from the beginning that John and Roxanna had equally brilliant brains, but very different motivations. Roxanna’s every thought was for her mother’s condition. John couldn’t bear any sort of emotional involvement with patients, with cases. I don’t think that has ever changed.”

“No,” Serena agreed. “He certainly comes across as a very clinical sort of man. So he was always all about the science, then?”

“Oh, very much so. And I’m afraid Roxanna was challenging his science, his methods.”

“And his ethics, I understand?” Serena probed gently.

He looked at her, a wry smile on his face in spite of everything.

“I'm not sure John Gaskell knows the meaning of the word, to be quite honest with you. He has become something of a liability for the hospital of late, and Roxanna had been investigating her concerns about his behaviour. She had visited his projects in Lisbon, in Tangiers - with my blessing. She felt she was on the verge of discovering something that would allow us to rein him in, to curb his worst excesses.”

“You believe it’s that serious? That he might be falsifying evidence, or using unethical methods to obtain results?”

He nodded.

“I’m almost certain of it. It was always his way: the science meant more to him that any mere social construct. We all felt the same way back then, when we were young firebrands ready to set the world of medicine ablaze. He made us swear an oath, to always put the science first. Roxanna and I came to realise that there were more important things than the hard science of medicine, but he never did.”

Roxanna slapped a hand to her head.

“The oath! Of course! Why didn’t I think of it? It’s the password, it has to be!”

Serena looked at her with wide eyes. Could they be on the verge of unmasking Gaskell for the dangerous monomaniac - and murderer, that he was? She grasped Henrik’s arm tightly. 

“The oath, Henrik - what was the _exact_ working of the oath?” 

He looked at her, startled by her sudden vehemence, but the words tripped off his tongue as though they had only sworn the oath yesterday.

“ _Nothing but the work_. John has never broken the oath, but it has been very much to his personal cost.”

Serena’s phone chose that moment to ping as a text alert came though, and she glanced at the screen. She clicked on the message from Essie:

_You were right. Traces of MTPT in the bag and line. Sandra has it locked in a fridge in the lab. Results attached. What should we do?_

She typed a one word reply: _Wait_ , and looked back at Hanssen.

“More than you know, Henrik - and not just _his_ cost,” Serena said grimly. “I’m afraid I have to tell you just how dedicated to that oath he’s been. Will you come to my office with me? And I’m going to call security - no, make that the police.”

Henrik showed little surprise, as though he had half been expecting this development, and together they took the lift back down to AAU. Slotting the most recent memory stick into the USB port, Serena typed in _NothingButTheWork_ , and the folder opened to show a list of recordings. She clicked on the last one, time-stamped an hour or so after Roxanna’s death the night before, and she put a hand on Henrik’s arm as he sagged at hearing John’s tearful confession of what he had done.

“It was because of the work,” Gaskell snivelled through the speaker of Serena’s computer. “It was because of the work. Forgive me, Roxanna, it was because of the work.”

 

***

It was dark in the corner of the car park, just by the undercroft. John Gaskell took a moment to gather his thoughts, and he hugged the folder he was carrying closer to himself. He did not trust the confidential waste bins in the hospital: this was something he needed to see destroyed with his own eyes.

He looked out into the car park. The blood stain on the tarmac was long gone, washed away by hospital orderlies and by the rain that had fallen since Roxanna’s death, but he could still see it in his mind’s eye: her body prone on the ground in front of Dr Chowdhury’s car, the blood dark and sticky beneath her head. And her eyes - oh, her eyes, open and staring at him! He shook himself. They weren’t open now, were they? He took a deep breath, exhaled as though to expel the memories from his body, and stepped out into the car park - straight into the solid form of Serena Campbell.

“Late night, Professor?” she asked, an eyebrow arched. “And taking paperwork home - surely you should be taking time off, not making more work for yourself. You’ve had a terrible shock, after all.”

He tried to step round her, muttering that Roxanna’s death had been a shock for them all, but Serena would not be assuaged.

“Oh, I don’t mean Roxanna. Her death was a shock for everyone else, of course it was, but it wasn’t a shock for you, was it? No, I meant the shock of nearly being discovered.”

Gaskell stood very still then.

“What do you mean?” he asked, a dangerous note in his voice.

“Oh, I think you know what I mean,” Serena replied, smug and certain. “Ms MacMillan knew that Laszlo never had motor neurone disease at all, didn’t she? And that you were still using Julie Bloom’s embryos after she had rescinded her permission to use them. That's why you killed her, isn’t it?”

He stared at her, and she had to hand it to him, he looked as calm as though she had simply asked him where the nearest toilets were.

“Ms Campbell - Serena. I can see how this might affect you - after all, your own daughter died in this car park, didn’t she? Another death by dangerous driving is bound to make you look for some deeper reason for these deaths, but Roxanna was the victim of a terrible tragedy, that’s all - just like your daughter. You really ought to consider bereavement counselling, you know.”

But Serena would not be cowed, even by such underhand tactics.

“Ah, yes,” she purred. “Professor John Gaskell, neurosurgeon and gaslighter extraordinaire. That might work with young, self doubting women like Meena Chowdhury, but it didn’t work with Roxanna, and it won’t work on me.”

He took a step closer to her, his fists clenching, crumpling the edges of the folder he carried, but she stood her ground.

“Your trial is built on bad science, because you were so keen to see your own successes that you couldn’t allow yourself to see the flaws in the methodology. You’ve contravened every principle of medical ethics ever devised, and you tried to destroy the careers of anyone who stood in your way. Roxanna went to extraordinary lengths to prove how far from the right path you had strayed, because she wanted to protect you from yourself, but when she most needed your help, you faked an operation that would have saved her.”

“No - no! She was trying to tarnish the project, but only because she wanted to take the credit herself - she was deranged, she - “

“She. Was. Not.” Serena’s voice was strong and terrible, and Gaskell flinched for the first time. “She was your friend, your loyal friend, and when you heard her trying to ask Essie to call the police, you repaid her with 40 ml of MPTP to her fluids.”

He rounded on her at this, and dropped the folder, grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the wall, just as he had done with Roxanna.

“There really is no point in this, Professor,” Serena gasped thorough the pain and shock. “I have the contaminated line locked away and waiting for the police, and I have your confession for them to hear.”

He laughed. “You’re bluffing. I’ve never made any _confession_. What kind of fool do you think I am?” he asked, no longer even tempting to deny his actions. Roxanna, watching things unfold, looked round anxiously, but Serena shook her head at her, mouthing _wait - just wait_.

“I think you’re the kind of fool who over-estimates his importance: who under-estimates his colleagues, and who is just sentimental enough to use a very predictable password to protect his voice recordings,” she said.

Gaskell’s jaw slackened in disbelief, and he loosened his grip just enough for her to shake her wrists free. She reached for her pocket, bringing out her phone and touching the screen. Gaskell’s voice, tinny through the small speaker, echoed in the undercroft.

“I introduced 40 mls of MTPT to the valve of the saline bag, and waited while it started to travel down the line. I left the theatre, and only returned when the crash team arrived. Attempts to resuscitate were futile,” and here his voice wavered. “Attempts to resuscitate were futile, and I called the time of death.” There was a pause, a gap where nothing could be heard but the wet breathing of a man trying to hold back tears. “It was because of the work,” the recorded voice wept. “It was because of the work. Forgive me, Roxanna, it was because of the work.”

Gaskell had been listening, appalled, but now he seemed to come to his senses. He snatched the phone and flung it to the ground, stamping on it, and reached for Serena again, his forearm against her throat as he pushed her back into the wall.

Roxanna had had enough of waiting. As she heard the footsteps of Hanssen and the police thundering from round the corner where they had been listening, she took a deep, deep breath, and blew.

Clouds of dust rose up from the ground, blasting into Gaskell’s face. He screwed up his eyes against the grit, and leaned more heavily against Serena’s throat. The lights across the car park flickered on and off, and Roxanna blew again: the dropped folder spilled all its secrets, the papers whipping around Gaskell’s head and shoulders, a thousand tiny paper cuts marking his face. He let Serena go, snatching at the papers with one hand as he tried to fend off the onslaught, and as he did so, he thought he saw - no, it was impossible! He blinked the grit out of his eyes, whirled round to avoid the flurry of papers, and saw again the terrible pale form of Roxanna MacMillan, standing near the spot she had been mown down, and looking as magnificent as she had ever looked, a look of - was that _pity?_ \- on her beautiful face. 

Pushing Serena out of his way, he dodged Henrik and the three policemen waiting for him, and he ran across the car park, looking over his shoulder in horror. He ran from Serena, from Henrik, most of all from the terrible figure of Roxanna - straight into the path of an ambulance as it screeched in to the ambulance bay. 

He lay motionless on the floor, a dark pool of blood forming and spreading beneath his head as the flashing blue lights played across his pallid skin. 

Henrik Hanssen took one step towards his oldest friend, then turned deliberately away and supported Serena, one awkward arm around her shoulders. “All right, Serena, you’re all right. Can you breath quite freely? You’re sure? Let’s sit down here for a moment, get your breath back properly.” 

He escorted her to the bench by Raf’s memorial and together they sat and watched as the paramedics spilled out of the ambulance, handing one patient off to the porters, and tending now to John. Henrik stayed by Serena’s side as John was wheeled off into A&E, and as the police behind them collected up the papers that had blown loose from the folder marked _R. MacMillan_ and tucked them safely into evidence bags, along with Serena’s broken phone.

Serena slowly calmed her racing heart, and as her breathing evened out, she became aware of a glow from the taxi rank. She turned to see a bright golden white cab, seemingly made of pure light, and Roxanna stepped towards it, a flight case and an aeroplane ticket in her hand.

“Excuse me, Henrik - I just need a moment. Will you wait for me?”

He smiled and nodded - “Of course,” and Serena walked over to the taxi rank where Roxanna was waiting for her.

“I see your flight’s been called,” Serena said.

Roxanna looked at the ticket, the little suitcase.

“Someone’s idea of a joke, I suppose,” she smiled. “I’ve spent so much time in airports lately they must think it’s the only way I’ll travel. I think I have to go and check in now.”

Serena smiled warmly at her.

“Safe journey, Roxanna. I’m glad we got to work together in the end. I wish I could give you a hug,” she said.

The smile Roxanna gave her was bright and friendly. “I'd like that too,” she said, “But you’d look a bit odd. Save it for Henrik, hey? He’s going to need a hug now and again, and I can’t think who else he’d accept one from.”

Later that evening, when Serena relayed the day’s events to Bernie, she wondered aloud what might herald their own crossing into the unknown realm when the time came. Young Sam Wilcox had needed an order; Roxanna had a flight to catch. Bernie laughed softly, and said, “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? They’ll call time at the bar.”

Roxanna opened the door of the taxi, gave Serena a nod and one last smile, and as the phantom car pulled away, she waved and blew a kiss to the tall, stiff figure of Henrik Hanssen. Henrik looked round curiously. His eyes widening, he raised a hand in what looked very much like a farewell, then he shrugged and shook his head. But there was a gentle smile on his face that Serena was glad to see.

“Come on, then Henrik - we’d better go and talk to the police - and then see how John’s doing, yes?”

They walked together into the hospital, two old friends who had lost everything, but who would do anything for each other.

***

Henrik Hanssen stood at the foot of the bed, peering at the chart in his hand, and he tutted.

“Dear, oh dear, John. If only Roxanna were here, she might be able to reverse this dreadful state. But she is dead, isn’t she, old friend?”

John Gaskell lay immobile, his grey eyes open and staring at the ceiling. A careful observer might have seen a slight movement of the eyes, a flash of intelligence - but it was hard to be sure.

Behind him, Henrik could her Essie going about her work, and she stepped up to the bed to take John’s hourly obs. She hung a new bag of fluids on the stand and pushed half an ampoule of morphine to make sure that John would feel no pain. She hovered for a moment, the syringe still in her hand.

“Mr Hanssen - this must be awful for him. I know he’s done terrible things, but don't you think we should be _kind_ now?”

She looked meaningfully at the ampoule on the trolley, at the syringe in her hand. 

Hanssen put his hand on her arm and gave a grim little smile.

“No, Nurse Di Lucca. We will take my good friend John at his own word. _Primum Non Nocere_.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Campbell and MacMillan (Deceased): The Graphic Novel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327293) by [ProfessorFlimflam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFlimflam/pseuds/ProfessorFlimflam)




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